This is the type of transformation we see in Casablanca. In the dead center of the movie, Rick Blaine is drunk in his saloon, after hours. Ilsa, his lost love, comes to him to explain why she had to leave him in Paris. She pours out her heart. Rick pours out his cruelty. He basically calls her a whore. She looks at him with tears in her eyes, thinking, This is not the man I loved. Not anymore.
She leaves. And (visually) Rick puts his head in his hands, knowing what a louse he really is.
Will he stay that way? The final transformation at the end tells us.
That Mirror Moment tells us what Casablanca is really about—personal transformation, into the person he’s supposed to be, a better self. (If he resists that transformation, we’d have a tragedy.)
Note: This transformation does not have to travel from negative to positive (though most of the time it does). It can also be from positive to negative. A prime example of this is Michael Corleone in The Godfather. He transforms from good American soldier to soulless gangster. His Mirror Moment comes when he decides he is going to be the one to kill the traitor Solozzo. There is even a type of transformation where the character is “offered grace” (as Flannery O’Connor put it) but turns it down. This is a tragedy. Two of my favorite films of all time, both starring Paul Newman, are examples of this––Hud and The Hustler.
2. The Lead character realizes, right in the middle of the struggle, that there is no way he can win. The odds are too great. He is “probably going to die.”
This transformation goes from stasis to strength. The character remains the same person fundamentally, but grows stronger in order to survive the “death stakes” of the conflict.
Examples of this type are: Clarice Starling in The Silence of the Lambs; Katniss Everdeen in The Hunger Games; Dr. Richard Kimble in The Fugitive.
In the middle of The Fugitive, Kimble is hiding out in a rented basement in Chicago. He’s trying to figure out how to get into Cook County hospital without being noticed, so he can get access to the prosthetics records (which could lead him to the one-armed man who murdered his wife).
Suddenly, cops surround the house! And start yelling!
Kimble is trapped, he doesn’t know which way to go!
But it turns out they are not there for Kimble, but for the drug-dealing son of the woman who owns the place.
Realizing this, after the adrenaline overload, Kimble breaks down. He’s thinking, I can’t possibly survive. I can’t fight against all this. I’m going to die.
That’s the essence of this second type of Mirror Moment. The character thinking along the lines of what Katniss thinks in the middle of The Hunger Games: This is an okay place to die, I think.
Are there any examples of characters without any type of Mirror Moment or transformation? What about James Bond? Jack Reacher? They’re always the same, aren’t they?
They are the same fundamentally, but in those stories the transformation is of the second type, because the case or intrigue they are involved in challenges their powers and threatens them with physical, professional or psychological death.
If the story doesn’t have death on the line, it’s going to feel flat.
The easiest way to find the transformation that is right for your story is to brainstorm your Mirror Moment.
Pantsers, you can brainstorm that anytime you like. If you’re lost in the middle of a draft (and I know you will be), the Mirror Moment will become the beacon that lights your way out of the thicket.
Plotters, you can determine your transformation at the beginning of things and know precisely how to outline from there (in my book I describe the “Golden Triangle” as the basis of a solid outline). Or you can put a moment in provisionally and change it later on as the story grows.
The point is that once you have it, it will illuminate the rest of your novel, from beginning to end. It will guide you in the formulation of plot, scenes and the ultimate meaning (theme) of the story trying to get out.
And move you toward an unforgettable ending.
4
ABOUT ACT 3
I’m a three-act structure guy, and make no apologies about it.
Even those who claim there’s no such thing as the three-act structure end up, in their fiction or their teaching, being three-act structure guys.
It’s just that instead of calling it beginning, middle, and end, they’ll make up some other terms for it, like: origination, escalation, and resolution.
Even the famous screenwriting guru who cursed out another famous screenwriting guru for suggesting there is a three-act template for movies, ended up laying out all these beats that, gasp, fell into three acts.
Because that’s how people are wired to receive stories.
Sure, you can play around with structure. You can even ignore it and write what’s called “experimental fiction” (which is also called “fiction that doesn’t sell”). You’re free.
Just know that to create an unforgettable ending you need to lay the right foundation. I’ve never found any foundation as strong as the three-act structure.
This is not a book covering the intricacies of the three acts. I’ve done that in another book, Super Structure. Instead, I’ll reiterate my basic plot development summary, called the LOCK System.
L stands for Lead. The protagonist.
O is Objective, what the Lead must get (or get away from). This objective must be in the form of a life-or-death struggle. There are three kinds of death: physical, professional, or psychological.
C is Confrontation. The Lead must be opposed by a force—embodied in another character or group—that is stronger than the Lead.
K is for Knock-Out Ending, which is the subject of this book. For that reason, let’s look a bit more deeply at what is happening in Act 3.
We are moving toward the climax, where the plot will be resolved—an ending organically related to the previous acts.
In Act 1 we were introduced to the Lead. We read to follow this character if he or she is ready to demonstrate strength-of-will. At the end of Act 1, the Lead was pushed through a Doorway of No Return, right into the confrontations of Act 2.
When I say “pushed,” that’s what it’s got to feel like. Because Act 2, remember, is about one of the three forms of death. If the stakes are not that high, the book is not going to be gripping. The Lead (like all of us) doesn’t want to have to face death. We would rather stay in our ordinary world, nice and comfy.
But that won’t make a novel.
So there is Dorothy Gale, Kansas farm girl, who is unhappy and wants to run away. But convinced by Professor Marvel to go back to the farm because, he tells her, Aunt Em’s heart is breaking. But just when she gets there, a twister rolls through and pushes (literally, lifts) Dorothy into Act 2. (Hint: When a movie changes from black and white to color, you’ve probably moved to Act 2).
Or Scarlett O’Hara, the coquette. She wants to stay in the Old South and marry Ashley Wilkes and wear big-hoop dresses and throw parties. But the Civil War forces her through a Doorway of No Return.
It’s “No Return” because we have to feel that the door slams shut, and locks. The Lead cannot go back. She can only go forward and fight through the plot.
So how do you move from Act 2 into Act 3? Another Doorway of No Return. Because through a clue, discovery, setback, or crisis, the resolution is now possible. Without this Doorway, the Lead would be going on and on through challenge after challenge, but would not be able to end the struggle with death.
Thus:
In The Fugitive, Dr. Kimble has managed to break into the apartment of a man with a prosthetic arm. Kimble got prosthetics records by sneaking into Cook County Hospital disguised as a custodian. He’s been tracking down those on the list. This guy is the last one.
And what does he find? A major clue. He sees a photo of the man he fought with, the man who killed his wife, alongside a well-known doctor, and near some records showing the one-armed man’s employment as security for a big pharmaceutical company.<
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With this information, Kimble is able to make a beeline toward the resolution of the mystery.
Dorothy Gale is captured by the Wicked Witch’s flying monkeys. That happens at the 3/4 mark of The Wizard of Oz. It is a major setback. It requires the three allies—the scarecrow, the tin man, and the lion—to break into the castle to save her. Which leads to the final confrontation with the witch.
So we pass through the Doorway of No Return #2, because there’s no going back. The Lead has to go forward in order to gain the victory.
The scenes I like to see in Act 3 are:
Mounting Forces
The antagonist––knowing the battle is really on and that the Lead is committed––mounts larger forces to defeat the Lead.
Lights Out
When it looks like all is lost for the Lead. There’s no way to win!
Note: The last fifty pages will start around this point, though it’s flexible depending on the type of book you’re writing, and the length. In any event, the Final Battle is now on the horizon. The Lead should be experiencing some fear or doubt. It is going to take an act of courage to fight to the finish. That’s why we need:
Q Factor
The Q Factor is an emotional jolt that gives the Lead the courage to fight on or make the right choice, by recalling or seeing something of emotional impact from Act I, or hearing from a trusted character about the need to fight or choose rightly. Luke Skywalker hears the voice of Obi Wan Kenobi: “Use The Force.” Or when Mr. Smith, in Mr. Smith Goes to Washington, is about to pack it in and leave town. But then Saunders, the female aide who has fallen for him, finds him sitting at the Lincoln Memorial. She reminds Smith of what he said when he first arrived and (in Act 1) visited the memorial. He’d said that Mr. Lincoln looked like he was waiting for the right person to come along. She tells Smith he’s that person. When Smith looks again at the monument, he’s inspired all over again.
Final Battle
Outer (will Lead overcome the forces?) and/or Inner (will Lead make the right choice?). This is the big, climactic scene or sequence, the fictive spot with all the chips in the middle of the table. To fight this battle he is going to need guts—either a raw act of physical courage, as displayed by Luke Skywalker in the attack on the Death Star; or a raw act of moral courage, as Rick demonstrates in Casablanca. In a downbeat ending (discussed in the next chapter) we flip these on their head. For example, in The Godfather, Michael lacks the moral courage to turn his back on a life of crime.
Transformation
Usually the last chapter of the book, showing us the character’s change to stronger self or new self, and carrying the emotional resonance you want to leave with the audience. This matter of resonance is so important I give it a chapter of its own.
In the next chapter, we’ll look at some examples so you can see these scenes in action. Meanwhile…
Try This:
Watch a few classic movies and try to identify the Act 3 beats as explained above. Then brainstorm each one of these for your own Act 3. Come up with two, three, or four possibilities for each beat. Think outside the box. Choose the best options and adjust your plot as needed.
Reject the most obvious choices. What you want are things that surprise the reader but which, upon reflection, seems inevitable. You then go back inside your novel and plant what you need in order to justify the actions. Not an easy task, which is why endings are hard. But this hard work will pay big dividends, the primary one being the transformation of readers into fans.
5
THE SHAPE OF YOUR ENDING
The Lead in a novel has an objective. He battles with strength-of-will to gain that objective. The outcome of this battle determines the shape of the ending, of which there are five:
1. The Lead wins
2. The Lead loses
3. The Lead sacrifices
4. The Lead “wins” but really loses
5. Open-ended
Let’s take a look at each.
1. The Lead Wins
Boy meets girl. Boy tries to win girl’s love. Girl’s family is against boy. Boy becomes a better man and ends up with the girl.
He’s won. He has gained the objective.
Detective gets case. Lots of stuff happens. At the end the killer is nabbed.
Detective has won.
Woman has awful childhood. Her mother tries to destroy her self-image. Woman is loved by a man who enables her to come into her own. She stands up to her mother, who has a heart attack and dies.
Woman has won the battle to become her own person, and even though she is somewhat sad her mother bought the farm, it’s a victory. (See the classic Bette Davis movie Now, Voyager.)
A victory in a novel must never be easy. It must cost something. The Lead usually suffers a wound (internal or external) that will leave a scar but also makes him stronger, better. In the beginning of The Fugitive, Dr. Richard Kimble suffers a deep, physical wound in the side in order to escape the prison bus (external). At the end he suffers the wound of betrayal by a trusted friend (internal).
In a Lead Wins novel, the battle is fierce—as it should be in all fiction—but we can firmly state at the end that the Lead has gained his objective.
As in the first book of Don Pendleton’s wildly successful vigilante series, The Executioner. Subtitled War Against the Mafia, it’s the story of Mack Bolan, Viet Nam vet and master sniper, who returns home only to find that mob loan sharks are responsible for the grisly deaths of his father, mother and teen-aged sister. Bolan declares war and begins a one-man execution run, utilizing his skills to take out one wise guy after another. Not only is the Mafia after Bolan, so are the cops, who can’t have this guy running around shooting things up.
It all culminates in a big battle in the town of Pittsfield. Which Mack Bolan wins:
The battle of Pittsfield had ended. Victory, for Mack Bolan, had been not an era but a miniscule point in time which had already receded into the fuzzy past, one that was absorbed and neutralized by the perilous present and which stood under the constant threat of being reversed.
But Bolan knows there is a cost to his new life:
There was nothing ahead but hell. He was prepared for hell. Somebody else, he avowed, had better get prepared for it, too. Mack Bolan’s last mile would be a bloody one. The Executioner was going to live life to the very end.
And brother, that life still hasn’t ended. As of this writing, there have been 460 installments!
To give us a little softer side of the Lead Wins ending, let’s consider the romance genre. In many lines it is required to have a happily-ever-after (HEA) ending. That is, both lovers get what they want at the end—each other.
Perhaps the most famous of these is Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice. Elizabeth and Darcy end up together at last, even winning over Darcy’s hostile aunt:
Lady Catherine was extremely indignant on the marriage of her nephew; and as she gave way to all the genuine frankness of her character in her reply to the letter which announced its arrangement, she sent him language so very abusive, especially of Elizabeth, that for some time all intercourse was at an end. But at length, by Elizabeth’s persuasion, he was prevailed on to overlook the offence, and seek a reconciliation; and, after a little further resistance on the part of his aunt, her resentment gave way, either to her affection for him, or her curiosity to see how his wife conducted herself; and she condescended to wait on them at Pemberley, in spite of that pollution which its woods had received, not merely from the presence of such a mistress, but the visits of her uncle and aunt from the city.
With the Gardiners, they were always on the most intimate terms. Darcy, as well as Elizabeth, really loved them; and they were both ever sensible of the warmest gratitude towards the persons who, by bringing her into Derbyshire, had been the means of uniting them.
Is there a wound here? As the title suggests, both pride and prejudice need to be cut out of the main characters. That operation leaves a mark, but not one so egregio
us that it cannot be overcome. As Elizabeth tells her sister: “Perhaps I did not always love him so well as I do now. But in such cases as these, a good memory is unpardonable. This is the last time I shall ever remember it myself.”
So remember the shape of the Lead Wins ending:
Death stakes (physical, professional, or psychological) in the final battle.
The Lead wins by gaining the objective (defeating an enemy; gaining love, etc.)
The victory leaves some sort of wound—internal, external, or both.
2. The Lead Loses
When a Lead character fails in his quest, you have what is known as a downbeat ending. In a classic tragedy, the hero dies or is punished because of his tragic flaw. Hamlet dies because he is blinded by revenge. King Lear dies because of pride and anger. Macbeth is done in by ambition.
A famous Lead Loses novel is F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby.
Narrated by the character Nick Carraway, it is the story of a wealthy but mysterious character named Jay Gatsby, who throws wild parties at his mansion during the Roaring 20s. Gatsby befriends Nick, and we soon know why. Living nearby is Daisy Buchanan, Nick’s cousin, and the object of Jay Gatsby’s obsessive love. Though she is married to another man, Gatsby has come to town in order to win Daisy back.
He almost does, but Daisy decides to stay with her husband, Tom Buchanan. Her driving, however, stinks, and she runs down and kills a character named Myrtle with Gatsby’s car. Gatsby is willing to take the blame, but Myrtle’s husband thinks Gatsby was having an affair with Myrtle (it was really Tom). So George goes to Gatsby’s and shoots him dead before turning the gun on himself.
So not only does Gatsby fail to win Daisy back, he ends up pushing up daisies forever.
What purpose does a downbeat ending serve?
For Fitzgerald, it had to do with a critique of the American dream—which usually revolves around money, and a lot of it—and the inability to recapture the past.
The Last Fifty Pages Page 2